As COVID adopted a business strategy of watering down its mission to attract a wider customer base, I walked back my personal going-out boundaries. I had packed in Hovvdy at Golddiggers, Art Feynman at the Echo, Roosevelt at the Fonda and Gel Set at Zebulon in my last quarter of ‘21, but Mrs. Omicron made me hit pause on all that.
A lot of my January was haunted by sexy musical ghosts of 2021 from “best-of” lists. I was glad to find the Crampsy Suicidey cold-a-billy of No Live ‘Til Leather ‘98 by Leather Rats, and very much appreciated their bullshit origin story and the sonic layer of a fake cheering crowd in a supposedly Japanese arena. Not available on Spotify — inconvenient but cool.
And what a back to basics sensual delight was Gas Lit by Divide And Dissolve, pure gravelly sludge that stuns you into submission with blunt force heaviness, and delays that chord change you crave until you’re begging, just begging for it. As if my mind wasn’t already blown, it turned out this racket didn’t come from pasty incels — Divide and Dissolve are two women, one black and one white.
I showed up so so late to the Little Simz party, but “Point and Kill” was my personal early ‘22 world domination anthem. “I do as I want, I do as I like” you guys. “I no watch face, I no fear nobody.” And in case you were wondering, “If I want it, it’s mine / You can’t stop me oh.” Love how she layers sweet West African call and responses into her sharp hip hop aggression.
Yeah I danced alone to it, in my socks. So now my confidence is up it might be a good time to share a little something you should know about me. I hope it’s not a deal breaker. From the time I first came out up until I hit my 50s I always had boyfriends, and not casual ones — they would generally last 2, 3, 4 years, but I would gradually pull away and eventually leave and be on to the next one.
Occasionally I would draw an avoidant and go into a state of longing and obsession until I had to break it off to survive. It seemed like I just kept picking the wrong guy. As a 50-something, the opportunities definitely slowed down, but then I fell hard for a 30-something man-child and it all got very crazy and I finally realized that the high of a new relationship was my addiction and jumping into relationships was a big compulsive behavior. Mama had to do some serious work on herself. Just so you know. More on all that in a minute…
ANYWAY, Speaking of Japan, which I was sometime last year, they reissued the 1981 solo album Neuromantic by Yoshinori Sunahara, lead singer for Yellow Magic Orchestra. Yoshi’s vocal timber and cadence is crazy similar to David Sylvian’s, but who influenced who? “Glass” is pure sugar-frosted 80s angsty keyboards cut with sour guitar solos. “Extra-Ordinary” is more angular, and reminds me of the Plastics.
I happened to put KXLU on in the car and Oh My God, I recognized that stuttering beat, that melancholy bed of chiming guitar and synth… “Here in the dark / Watching the screen / Look at them fall / The final scene.” The theatrical heart-in-throat 80s vocals, a la OMD. What was this Proustian madeleine of a song? “Doot Doot” by Freur from 1983, thank you Shazam — the guys who went on to become Underworld. “And we go doot / Doot doot,” and that “wwwwooOOOOOUUUuuuww” sound effect. The whole dramatic sweep of life and fame inevitably collapsing into a few pre-verbal syllables. “Look at them fall / Flicker and fade / Gone are the screams / I put them to bed, now they are dreams / And we go doot / Doot doot.”
Which brings me back to my so-called love life… As my avid readers will know, I came back into the world of sexual activity last year, after almost five years of celibacy. The highlight of my sex year was hooking up with a cute, cuddly and smart guy who was into good music on vinyl and 110% my type and also extremely turned on by my particular garden of earthly delights. He was getting ready to leave town when we met, but he was gonna be back over Christmas break, and of course he stayed on my mind and in my fantasies and we texted a bit. He seemed like someone I would love to actually date and get to know and so much more, although our star signs are not very compatible.
The word “partnered” showed up in his profile, something I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if it had been there before. There were hiccups in our communication — a text accidentally left unsent, a cryptic exchange of emojis, but then suddenly we were in bed together having some of the the warmest, gooshiest, brain-drug releasing sex I could ever hope for. After a celebratory climax — more on that when we talk in person — I handed him a towel and he proceeded to get up to put his pants on. Wait a second. No cuddle? I asked for one and he did indulge me, but it definitely knocked the stars from my eyes. I made it worse by over-talking and draping my leg over him when he started to pull away. Afterwards if I were Carrie Bradshaw I would have hurried to my laptop by the window in my Manhattan brownstone to mull it over. “Is it worth it to have ridiculously hot sex when you find out the guy is in a no-longer-sexual committed relationship with someone else?”
“Slob on my knob, like it’s ya job / Yellow Lamborghini, corn on the cob,” was an inspiring call to action — one of many — on Chief Keef’s 4NEM album. Perhaps it will serve as my personal cri de coeur for romance in 2022. The Chief is extreme — he goes from a sweet, encouraging voicemail from his granny to a couplet like “That ain’t yo’ hoe, that’s everybody hoe / How that pussy is? Everybody know.” But there are layers to this rapper: “I might go bikin’/ I might climb a mountain, I might go hikin’ / I might go strikin’ / Said I smell good, she like my hygiene.” The overconfidence is hilarious, but it’s the unexpected shifts out of his hard gangsta persona that make him truly adorable. “On what I won’t buy a bitch off my aunty? On what I won’t give a hundred to my mommy?” And his arrangements get strange and subtle, like on my personal fave, the dark and paranoid “Shady” — served over an amelodic bed of what sounds like a shamisen.
I know I’ve already gushed endlessly about Satomimagae but I got myself the Hanzono album on vinyl mostly just because it came with a lyric sheet. I’ve never felt like I could distinguish between digital and analogue, but I put it on the turntable and played it through circa 1980 JVC speakers that I’ve had since college and the vinyl had a sweetness and natural quality that was just on another level from what I’m used to. I guess vinyl is now a high-end audiophile commodity rather than a mass-market one, and mastering and manufacturing has come a long way. Just sublime.
Hate-watching Sex in the City through the years has been such a pleasure: the way Carrie embodies a specific kind of 21st Century privileged assholeness is truly frightening, but at the same time the point of view of the show seems to be that she’s like this aspirational fantasy figure to identify with. The reboot picks up this ethos seamlessly, starting out with a self-serving storyline about the missing Samantha that wantonly re-contextualizes the real-life feud between SJP and Kim Cattrall. First they make it about Samantha’s personal issues and then they reassure la Parker that “she really does love me.”
But the best part is when spoiler alert Carrie comes home to find Big mid-heart attack. Does she call 9-1-1? No, she seizes the moment to give herself a big emotional scene, throwing her arms around him as the rain from the glass and granite shower falls upon them, ruining her hair and her favorite shoes. I tell you it’s fucking genius, possibly the best Carrie moment ever. Is Michael Patrick King secretly cracking up over what he got away with?